


To Learn How To Be Loved

by tupti



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Cuddling, Eventual Fluff, First Kiss, Geralt feels like a monster and Jaskier must remind him that he's not, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier sees the Witcher Face, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Soft Boys, Tenderness, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23527753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tupti/pseuds/tupti
Summary: A bad potion makes Geralt seriously sick and all Jaskier can do is cuddle it better.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 841





	To Learn How To Be Loved

The mage had fucked up.

About two seconds after Geralt had downed the potion, he could already feel it. The mage had gotten the proportions wrong. No wonder she was stuck in this backwater when she couldn’t even get a simple fucking potion right! He gritted his teeth and tried not to let the messed-up magic overwhelm him.

Incompetent mages were far and few between, because they usually didn’t live long. Still, this had happened to Geralt before and he knew exactly what was coming: The power surge would be twice as strong, it would hit him so hard that it would almost rip him apart from the inside.

That wasn’t the problem.

His veins started to pulse, his vision tinged black. The Selkiemore didn’t stand a chance. Geralt was so fast, it couldn’t keep up, his blows came down so hard, it didn’t take more than five strikes to cut the huge beast down. Within minutes, guts spilled over the river bank, the lifeless body sank halfway back into the water.

The problem came after.

Geralt managed to drag himself a couple of feet away from the Selkiemore corpse, before his body started to shake violently. He fell to his hands and knees and started to retch. Black bile pooled under him, its foul stench stung in his nose.

The problem was that it would take hours and hours to get the botched potion out of his system and it would not be pleasant, to say the least.

On shaking limbs he crawled a little bit further, just enough to not collapse into his own vomit, when his arms and legs finally gave out. A fever flushed red hot through his body and at the same time, he felt like someone replaced his insides with melting snow. He screwed his eyes shut and curled into a tight ball where he lay. This night was not going to be pretty.

  
  


Jaskier had started to nervously pace to and fro a considerable time ago.

Geralt had been very clear about him staying put. But the hour the Witcher had estimated had long passed. He was not just running a little late by now, he was seriously delayed. When dusk began to fall, Jaskier gave way to his worries. He shouldered his lute and his pack and went after his friend.

Luckily, there was only one path and no sign suggested that Geralt had left it. Soon enough Jaskier heard a horse neighing in the distance.

Thank the gods! He followed the sound and found Roach tied to a tree.

‘Oh, I’m glad to see you, dear girl!’ Jaskier hastily unwound her leash. ‘Now, I’m sure you know where the old man went. Can’t be far, right?’

Roach replied with a snort and trotted deeper into the woods. Just a few minutes later, Jaskier could hear a stream. A small clearing came into view, where the huge body of a Selkiemore hulked up like a hill. The last rays of sunlight had already vanished behind the tree tops, so Jaskier almost missed the curled up figure that lay in the middle of the clearing, back turned towards him.

‘Geralt!’ He let go of Roach and ran to drop to his knees at the Witcher’s side. “Geralt, no…’

It couldn’t be! Not like that, not without Jaskier by his side, not without someone holding him in his last moments, without a friendly face to remember!

But as soon as the shock had washed over him, it subsided again. The body next to him trembled, slightly, but noticeably. Jaskier breathed out. The situation might be bad, but at least, it wasn’t hopeless. He carefully touched his hands to the Witcher’s shoulders.

‘Geralt, can you hear me?’

The Witcher curled into himself a little tighter.

‘Go away.’

He had probably meant to growl it, but the words came out weak and broken.

‘Yeah, big chance,’ Jaskier huffed. ‘What happened? What do you need? Where are you hurt?’

He gently tugged at Geralt’s shoulders to try and turn him around and even though he felt the Witcher straining against him, he effortlessly managed to do so. That was not a good sign. At all.

‘Don’t look at me!’

Geralt sounded desperate, but Jaskier had learned to tell when it was wise to ignore his wishes, because they were nothing but self-deprecating bullshit. He still jumped a little, when his gaze fell on the Witcher’s face. Chalk-white, streaked with thick, black and pulsing veins, and in it a pair of pitch-dark eyes.

‘Told you not to look’, Geralt rasped.

But the bard didn’t scare so easily. ‘What happened to you?’ He gingerly touched Geralt’s cheek. ‘Gods, you’re burning up!’

‘It’s nothing.’

The Witcher betrayed his own words with a deep groan. He pressed his hands to his stomach, then, cumbersomely, he rolled to his side, away from Jaskier, and heaved up. Black bile splattered down on the floor, reeking of decay.

Hastily, the bard smoothed Geralt’s hair back. While he held it with one hand, he started to rub soothing circles on his shoulder with the other.

‘We’ll get you a potion. I’m sure, the mage can sort things out…’

‘Fuck the mage!’

Geralt flopped down on his back, screwed his eyes shut and breathed heavily. For lack of anything better to do, Jaskier pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and carefully cleaned Geralt’s face. The Witcher blinked his eyes open and weakly raised a hand to swat the bard away, but he didn’t have the strength to go through with it.

‘So, not the mage,’ Jaskier muttered. ‘Then what?’

Geralt moaned and pulled himself into a tight ball again. ‘Wait,’ he pressed through gritted teeth.

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’ll be fine. Go!’

‘Yeah, I _will_ go. To get fire wood. Back in a second. Don’t move.’

  
  


Geralt heard him storm off. Why wouldn’t he just leave? Why did he insist on seeing him like this? To distract himself from the pain and the cold and the heat and the feeling of sickness, he concentrated on the noises Jaskier made. He picked up the frenzy with which the bard stumbled through the undergrowth to pick up branches, how he came running back and tinkered around to make a fire quicker than he had ever made one. Geralt had to admit, when the warmth of the flames washed over his face, he did feel some comfort and his shivering subsided a little bit.

He felt Jasker’s hands on his shoulders again.

‘Come on, I’ve put down a blanket. Wish I could pick you up, but well… You just need to rob a foot or two, come on…’

Geralt felt so weak, he wasn’t sure he could do it. But Jaskier gently coaxed him towards the fire, an inch at a time. Finally, he felt the rough linen of a blanket under his cheek and the close burn of the flames.

Nimble fingers pulled at the clasps of his armour and carefully removed the heavy leather that constricted his chest. The Witcher breathed a bit more freely, but started to shiver all the more in the thin shirt he wore underneath. By the Gods, he felt helpless!

He heard Jaskier rummage around in the saddle bags and a moment later, a thick, woollen cloth was draped over him. His cloak, he recognised through his feverish haze. It felt nice, but it didn’t really help much with the shivering. The cold seemed to gnaw at his body from the inside, making his muscles shake uncontrollably.

Leaves rustled and he could feel Jaskier sit down next to him, then gentle hands pulled his head into the bard’s lap. He gathered all his strength to complain, but Jaskier started to thread his fingers through his hair and it actually felt comforting. A little warmth seemed to return to his bones even. So he allowed himself to close his eyes and let it happen.

After a little while, he noticed a melody that wafted around him, carried by Jaskier’s soft tenor, low and soothing. His sickness subsided a bit and allowed him to drift away into the limbo between sleep and waking.

But it wasn’t over yet. Every now and again spasms of pain and sickness shook his body and ripped him from that oblivion. Quite a few times Jaskier had to help him roll to the side, so he could vomit black bile. At first he had been embarrassed for the bard to see him like that, but what was done, was done. He couldn’t bring himself to care any more.

Jaskier still insisted to soil his handkerchief with Geralt’s filth, dabbing his mouth and chin every time he had thrown up.

‘Are you really sure, you’ll be fine?’ he heard him ask.

‘Yes,’ he growled in response. He would, probably. And even if not, there was nothing that could be done now. But when he lied, maybe the bard wouldn’t feel obliged to wipe up his sick any more. ‘You can leave.’

Jaskier huffed indignantly.

‘That’s not how I meant it. Melitele’s tits, Geralt, must you make it so hard to care for you? I’m not going anywhere. Though your fever might actually be getting a bit better…’

Hands that felt downright icy to Geralt touched his brow and startled him.

‘Cold,’ he mumbled.

Jaskier pulled back. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s… good.’

‘Oh. Right.’

Two palms gently pressed against either side of Geralt’s face and soothed the burning heat just slightly. He felt like he could think a bit more clearly now.

‘Better?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Since you seem to be able to talk, do you mind telling me what exactly is wrong with you?’

‘The mage fucked up the potion.’

‘I see.’ Jaskier moved his hands a bit further down and cooled the skin on the Witcher’s jaw and neck. ‘Will your face go back to normal then?’

Geralt snorted weakly. ‘The face is the only thing that’s supposed to be this way.’

‘Oh.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you? Do you understand yet what I am?’

‘Oh, dear Witcher, don’t be such a drama queen. I have understood that a long time ago.’ Cool fingers wandered up to his cheeks again and turned their touch into a gentle caress. ‘What _you_ don’t understand is, that I know who you are and I’m still not afraid of you. So don’t even think for a second you can talk me into leaving you here.’

In that very moment another wave of pain rippled through Geralt’s body. He groaned and tried to shift in a way that made the cramps in his stomach more bearable.

‘Where does it hurt?’ he heard Jaskier ask softly.

He clenched the muscles in his jaw hard to not scream, so he couldn’t answer. All he could do was clutch his hands to his stomach and turn on his side. He felt sick again, he gagged, but nothing came up. Instead, another shivering fit washed over him.

He had to be a pitiful sight to behold, he was sure. Ugly and broken and reeking of Selkiemore guts and vomit. He felt Jaskier carefully move his head from his lap and the fear rose in him that the moment had finally come where the bard had decided to leave him. But he just lay down on the blanket next to him and slipped under the cloak to press his body close to Geralt’s.

His warmth seeped into the Witcher’s skin and made him shake a little less. Gently, the bard nudged his hands away from his stomach and sneaked his own fingers under the shirt where he started to rub slow circles. The intense pain subsided a bit to give way to a dull ache and Geralt relaxed into Jaskier’s touch.

‘Don’t you know any fear at all?’ he muttered, half mockingly, half seriously.

He heard the bard laugh softly, felt his body shake against his own.

‘Oh, I do. I fear a great many things, in fact. But not you. Never you.’

He looked him straight in the eyes which, Geralt thought, had to look like a demon’s to him. Why the bard hadn’t ran when he saw them, he couldn’t understand. Every one else would have. But not him. He never did.

Jaskier lifted his free hand and gently started to trace the pulsing veins in Geralt’s face. The Witcher fluttered his lids shut, as he leaned into the soft touch.

‘I know you think you’re a monster’, he heard the bard whisper. ‘But you’re not. Far from it.’ And then he felt sweet lips ghost a kiss to his forehead.

His eyes flew open and searched Jaskier’s gaze, searched for a taunting look or a mocking streak around his lips. But there was only an encouraging smile and in that moment, he almost believed him. He felt tears rising and blamed it on the sickness. Witchers didn’t cry from emotion.

Still, it felt safer to close his eyes and bow his head, so that the bard couldn’t see. His brow came to comfortably rest on Jaskier’s chest, where he could hear his heart beat a calming rhythm. Soft fingers curled around the back of his neck to caress him soothingly and he couldn’t help it: a little sigh escaped his lips.

He almost drifted off again, when a sudden flash of pain seared through his chest and ribs and stomach. Gods, would it ever stop? He grunted and out of instinct gripped Jaskier’s arms tightly. The bard tensed up and Geralt let got immediately. Even in his weak state, he must have held on too hard, must have hurt him. He mumbled an apology while he tried to roll away from his companion.

But Jaskier gently stopped him, took his hands and pulled them to his chest. ‘No need to apologise,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing happened. I’m fine. Come here.’

He pulled Geralt close again and wrapped his arms around his back to hold him tightly.

Even in front of a Selkiemore the Witcher had never felt small before, never fragile, never like someone worth to be protected. But here, in Jaskier’s arms, he felt all of that and he finally allowed himself to accept all the care and love the bard so freely gave.

Curled into him, Geralt finally fell into a fitful sleep. Every time he woke up, the bard was still there, by his side, holding him tight, sometimes humming that melody again, sometimes just rubbing his back. Even in his feverish haze, he felt safe and almost content and that was something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

  
  


When Jaskier woke the next morning, he still held Geralt in his arms. His ribcage rose and fell slowly with a calm breath and he seemed considerably better than when he had found him yesterday. Oh, to lie here forever like this, watching the Witcher being vulnerable for once, letting somebody take care of him! Unfortunately, Jaskier’s arm had fallen asleep over night, so he very, very carefully tried to move it.

Geralt jerked awake with a hunted look in his eyes.

His golden eyes.

The bard smiled. ‘You’re back! How do you feel?’

The Witcher sat up and squinted against the morning sun that sent its light through the trees. It made his skin shimmer bronze – a stark contrast to the unhealthy white it had been before. Geralt blinked at Jaskier, then turned his gaze down. With erratic movements he rubbed his hand through his face and pushed it through his tangled hair.

‘Fine.’

The bard reached out to touch him, but Geralt shied away, a suspicious look in his eyes, so he stopped and hesitated.

‘Are _you_ afraid of _me_ now?’

He gently shook his head. ‘No. No. I suppose I’m still… not quite myself.’

Jaskier studied his face in wonder. Geralt admitting he wasn’t fine – however understated – was a step forward in terms of vulnerability and trust. He inched a bit closer to him.

‘I’m so glad you made it through this, I really am. Can I… Can I hug you?’

He looked up at the Witcher through his eyelashes, waiting for a reaction, waiting… After what felt like an eternity, his companion gave the slightest of nods, so slight he almost missed it. With a smile, he pulled him into an embrace, felt the stiff body slowly relax into his touch. Hesitantly, Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist to carefully hug back and eventually, he even let his head fall gently against the bard’s.

‘I’m not used to this,’ he whispered.

‘That’s alright.’ Jaskier rubbed up and down his back. ‘I can make you get used to it, if you like.’

The bard felt Geralt turn his head and bury it in the crook of his neck, where he breathed in deeply.

‘Hmm,’ he mumbled warm against his skin.

‘Hmm,’ Jaskier replied in the best impression of the Witcher’s gravelly voice he could muster, and hugged him a little bit tighter.

They sat like that in silence for a while. Jaskier almost thought, Geralt had fallen asleep in his arms again, but then he heard a whisper, hardly audible, if it hadn’t been so close to his ear.

‘Thank you for not leaving.’

He turned his head slightly, so that his cheek pressed against the Witcher’s temple. ‘I’d never. You know that, right?’

‘I do now.’

Geralt pulled back a bit and studied Jaskier’s face. The bard quizzically furrowed his brow. Just when he was about to ask what was on the Witcher’s mind, he spoke.

‘Can I kiss you?’

Jaskier opened his eyes wide in surprise and could feel himself blush.

‘Yes, please!’

So Geralt leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Jaskier’s heart fluttered and his face flushed red. How could this man think of himself as a monster, a man capable of such tenderness? But the Witcher pulled back far more quickly then he would have liked and rose to his feet.

‘Let’s go. We have a bounty to collect.’

The bard grinned, dumbfounded, as he watched him walk towards Roach.

‘When are we going to do this again?’ he shouted after him.

‘When I’ve had a bath’, came the disgruntled response.

The bard laughed and rose to his feet to follow his Witcher. Oh, he would learn how to let himself be loved and Jaskier would be a patient teacher…


End file.
